


BPM

by Lionescence



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Be careful with your sex toys kids, Inspired by an innocent tweet, It does get cute, Keith's life is so weird, M/M, Meet-Awkward, Shiro is so awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:49:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionescence/pseuds/Lionescence
Summary: Keith is a musician, Shiro lives upstairs. A slip of the hand allows the two to meet at one in the morning for the most awkward conversation ever.





	BPM

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to a twitter exchange between @Lycoria and @wolfsan11, this kept me giggling for most of Thursday afternoon. I hope you all enjoy this foray into silliness.

One a.m.

One in the _fucking_ morning.

He’d never learn. He would never, ever, learn that when Lance says, “Oh it’ll only be a couple of drinks after the gig,” he means a storming two-hour binge across the venue’s cocktail menu, or as many shots he can wrangle from the groupies he’d charmed that night. He’d never, ever learn that when Lance says the following morning, “Bro, don’t let me do that again, okay?” he really means, “Last one to the bar buys the first round!”

Keith had hoped that with an eight o’clock kick-off, they’d get their set done and have the van packed by ten and then merrily on home. But no. He got dragged to the bar, Hunk apologized, Pidge bought the first set of shots, Lance was on his second Mai-Tai and fourth round of shots when Keith finally finished nursing his Coke because Hunk was driving and someone _else_ had to be sober enough to pack up the van and Hunk apologized _again_.

He finally got dropped off at a quarter past midnight, Pidge passed out in the back seat and Lance singing _O Mio Babbino Caro_ — frighteningly well, he had to admit — stinking of spilt beer and cigarette smoke. As soon as he was through the door of his flat he stripped naked in the kitchen to throw everything into the washing machine and proceeded to drown himself in the shower before crawling into a set of sweats and flopping onto the bed.

And now, there was a loud _rattling_ noise coming from the ceiling. He scrunched his eyes shut, hoping the noise would stop, but then… it wasn’t a rattle. It was a hum. A loud, solid hum. That vibrated.

Fuck. _No_.

Keith sat up in his bed and threw his pillow at the ceiling. “Are you _shitting_ me right now? _Seriously?_ ”

Normally, _normally_ , he’d let this sort of thing go. But he’d woken up that morning knowing he was going to have a rough day mentally and he couldn’t beg out of the gig that they’d agreed to do two months ago. Granted, he did his best live drumming when he was worked up, but it simply extended the anxiety and made the come-down a lot harder to reach. So: bad morning, high-energy gig, irritable and overwrought journey home.

Keith Kogane was _done_.

He stalked out of his bedroom, grabbing a loose t-shirt and his hoodie on the way out, found his keys and shoved his bare feet into the nearest pair of trainers he could find. Opened his door, slammed it shut, made for the stairwell.

The door he raised his fist to —217 instead of 117 — looked perfectly respectable, certainly in better nick than his own. Maybe it was typical. Respectable doors tended to hide less than respectable behaviour.

Three sharp, short knocks. Folded his arms. Tapped his foot. He didn’t even try to deepen his scowl because he was sure he looked like he’d had it with the world and wanted it to drown in a sea of wasps. Yeah, that’d do the trick.

There came heavy, hurried footsteps from the other side of the door. A clunk and a swear and something like a skid, maybe, before latches were worked and the door opened.

Keith had prepared for a lot of things.

He hadn’t prepared for the most beautiful, powerful-looking man he’d ever seen in his life to answer the door. Half a head taller than him and half again his width at least, Captain America shoulders tapering down to a tight waist, and just… legs. Fuck, he thought _he_ had long legs but _this guy._ Wide, confused grey eyes stared at him from underneath a messy white forelock that didn’t match the rest of his close-cut black hair, and Keith tried not to stare at his mouth, or cut himself on that jawline because _holy Christ wait he was mad about something._

“Yes?”

 _Oh for…_ did he have to sound like melted chocolate as well? The universe had it out for Keith Kogane, that was for certain now. At least the Handsome Man looked sheepish, a slight blush to his cheeks and a wariness in his eyes that meant Keith could probably play poker with this guy and take him for all he owned plus his teeth. Or maybe just strip poker so he could —

That did it. He decided to really get his scowl on.

“Your vibrator is keeping me awake,” he said, flat, straight up, and dry. “And it’s past one in the morning.”

Handsome Man had the audacity to blink, as if the vibrating noise wasn’t still happening, faintly in the background. “Vibra— I… oh. Oh my god, no. No no _no_ , that’s um, it’s my phone. I dropped it and it somehow slid under my bed.”

Keith felt his brain come to a halt. It was past one in the fucking morning. He was exhausted, and this guy could not lie to save his life. The nerve of him. Soon he was aware that he had one raised eyebrow and a dropped jaw in disbelief, and he shook his head, fixing Handsome Man with a glare.

Still sheepish. Still looking like a rabbit caught in an open field full of buzzards. Still pretending that _gods-forsaken vibrating_ wasn’t happening.

Instead of replying, Keith looked down at the floor of Handsome Man’s flat: it was the same as his own. As if to make a point, he tapped the heel of his trainer on the floor, and it produced a familiar sound.

“Okay. So. I have bad news for you. We have the same flooring. I am a musician. I’ve been told I have perfect pitch, whatever that means. And that, my friend, is the sound of high-grade silicone beating very rapidly against faux-wood flooring.”

Handsome Man’s face did an interesting thing, where it couldn’t decide if it wanted to blanch pale or go sixteen shades of red. Some noises fell out of his mouth, none of them actually words, just attempts at excuses or denials. Eventually he settled on some kind of scrape for his dignity, squaring his shoulders, drawing his mouth into a tight line before letting out a deep breath.

“I suppose you can put a time signature to it?”

“Probably four-four. It’s the BPM that’s concerning. I can’t drum that fast.”

“BPM.”

“Beats per minute. My tempo app only goes up to 400. So I don’t know what setting you’ve got on there.”

“Oh.”

Seconds ticked by. The hum continued behind them, by now destroying any assumption that it might have been a phone, no matter how large. Somehow, Handsome Man had grown deaf to the noise, while Keith was growing so much more aware of it and what it meant that he was starting to feel blood rushing up to his face. Suddenly he noticed that Handsome Man was in a pair of shorts and a tank or t-shirt hidden underneath a dishevelled dressing robe, belt barely tied.

There had been an interruption. And Keith interrupted the interruption that brought him here in the first place and —

He dropped his face into his hands, a high, weak whine leaving him.

“Okay, um. _Okay_.” If Keith had looked up from his hands, trying to not claw his own eyes own in hopes of a slow painful death, he’d have seen the way Handsome Man moved his hands in flustered placating. “Look. If I — If you give me two minutes to… um. Fix stuff. Get decent — _oh god_ — I could offer you a drink? As an apology?”

Fuck his entire life. Fuck it. “A drink.”

“Yeah. Um. Shit. I’m so sorry. Oh my god. I’m —”

Keith held one hand up, stopping any further word vomit. “Close the door. If I’m still here when you open it again, I hope you have some damned good scotch.”

The door closed. Keith bit back a scream.

 

 

  
He was still there when Handsome Man — _Shiro_ , he introduced himself at last — opened the door. He was wired and tired and didn’t know if he wanted to punch something or curl up into a ball and cry. Shiro seemed to pick up on this, because the drink that was offered to him was a huge mug of hot chocolate, made with whole milk, on the stove, with proper chocolate. “I put a shot of scotch in for you. You look like you need it.”

They sat in the kitchen, a mug each, and talked. Shiro was finally integrating back into civilian life after an honourable discharge from the military, hence the scar and the rather cool prosthetic for a right arm, and while socially he was doing well, he’d forgotten entirely the rules of engagement when it came to dating. Keith wasn’t entirely surprised: he was charming, but he needed a safe space to be charming. He wasn’t like Lance, who could turn it on and off and all the way up whenever he wanted to to get what he wanted.

“I mean, this is probably the longest conversation I’ve had with someone so pretty.”

Keith peered up from his mug mid-sip. _Wait. What the —_

Shiro had gone pink again, making his scar stand out from his face. “Shit. Fuck. I…”

Keith couldn’t help but smile, still half-hiding behind his mug. That seemed to do odd things to Shiro’s face again, this time more adorable than awkward.

He waved his right hand, metal catching the light, helplessly. “See what I mean?”

“Hmmm,” was all Keith offered, setting his mostly empty mug down. He stood then, stretched, and caught sight of the kitchen clock. “It’s nearly three, Shiro. I’ve had a long night. But thank you for the drink. It… helped.”

“I’m glad,” Shiro said, a shy smile making itself known. “And I’m so sorry, again.”

Keith shrugged as he walked to the door. “Didn’t work out too bad in the end, did it?”

Shiro blinked. “I… guess. No. Not too bad at all.”

“Mmm. Well. You know where I live. I get back in at 7 usually. Goodnight, Shiro.”

Life owed Keith a big one, so he allowed himself to linger by the door once he closed it behind him, and the muffled squeal he heard from inside the flat was good enough for him. That was the feeling he took with him to sleep, and he hadn’t slept so well in a long time.

 

 

  
They were dating within two weeks. Within three, Shiro threw the vibrator into the trash.

 

 

  
By the sixth week, Shiro got to meet the rest of the band at their favourite bar. The evening went well, until Pidge asked, “So how’d you two meet?” And they both spat out their drinks.

 

 

 


End file.
